


Counting Down

by valkyrienix



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: heavy use of flashbacks, more tags to pop up as they come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyrienix/pseuds/valkyrienix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as Wrench had opposed the law enforcement in the past, she’d been nice enough to him, and certainly as hellbent on catching Malvo as he was now, that it would be wiser to leave her safely behind him, rather than get her involved.  He could possibly steal some information off of her.  Maybe, if he could convince Numbers to--</p><p>Ah.</p><p>Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i started rping wrenchers with a friend and now i gott a WRITE A FIC ABOUT THEM

It would have been supremely stupid of him to not use that key, regardless of who had given it to him. Wrench was an intelligent enough man to know when he was given a God damned blessing. However, he was not intelligent enough, he thinks to himself as he glances down either side of the street, to have freed himself in a timely manner. No, he’d had to sit and think about the situation as a whole.

Or rather, debate with himself for about an hour before finally thinking, “Fuck it,” and unlocking himself from the hospital bed and making his way out of the hospital. He hadn’t bothered to find out what had happened to the officer, and it seemed that the hospital staff who had passed by his room several times during his internal debate hadn’t really cared to look either. They were busy, and who were they to question the usual officer’s absence? Perhaps the occupant of the room was in fact, innocent, and there was no need for an officer to be guarding him after all? He silently thanks the human mind for brushing things off so easily before once again trying to think of where to look for that murdering son of a bitch next.

It’s more than a little disheartening to know that he has little to no trails to follow to find this man. He’d hesitated in freeing himself, and that had cost him. Still, there was no easy way to accept freedom from the man that had killed his friend. Perhaps, if he were to converse with the female police officer whom he’d seen earlier, he’d find something. That was, unfortunately, too risky for him, and he’d prefer to keep her role in this to a minimum. As much as Wrench had opposed the law enforcement in the past, she’d been nice enough to him, and certainly as hellbent on catching Malvo as he was now, that it would be wiser to leave her safely behind him, rather than get her involved. He could possibly steal some information off of her. Maybe, if he could convince Numbers to--

Ah.

Right.

Numbers was no longer in his list of assets. Numbers was no longer by his side. Numbers was the whole reason for which he was determined to track Malvo down. It had been approximately an hour since Wrench had last seen him, so it wouldn’t be presumptuous to say he was out of the city. He silently prays to whatever being that might so happen to be out there that Malvo was not, in fact, all that far from him. He wishes, he hopes, and he begs whatever form of God might be out there that he can catch the murderer of his partner.

Not being a religious man, nor a particularly sentimental one, he decides his best course of action is to find whatever file that woman had on Malvo, and take copious notes on all of it. That, or perhaps Xerox the hell out of every page in that file and leave with exact data. The effort that it would take for him to gain access to those files is not, however, any small amount. While he does not usually have trouble with his lack of hearing, there are moments when he can profoundly feel his disability. Now is definitely one of those times. Without Numbers’ presence, Wrench was now rendered unable to hear if there were, perhaps, an enemy of any kind approaching. Sneaking into the Police Department was therefore out of the question.

The thought briefly occurs to him to request from Fargo another partner, but the he smashes the notion aside. He could never really have a partner that he worked so well with as Numbers. The two of them had been so acutely in sync, it would feel like a stepback to be partnered with someone else. There is also the unfortunate fact that not many people, let alone people who were willing to become hitmen, actually knew ASL.

There is also the fact that no matter who they chose to partner him with, not a single one of them would be Numbers.

He grits his teeth, hands balling up into fists within his pockets, and begins walking briskly down the snowcovered street, careful to keep his head down and remain as inconspicuous as possible. Loitering around the hospital could get him back in cuffs, and that was something he had no intention of allowing. Not, at least, while Malvo was still alive and breathing. He wouldn’t care after that, he decides, because what else does he have to do after that? Going back to his old job would hurt more than it would help, wouldn’t it?

Still, he acquiesces that he cannot actually go on a manhunt without some sort of funding. He'd end up broke and begging. Both Numbers and himself had put away money for if and when they were to ever leave Fargo, so he wasn’t _entirely_ without funds. Still, he was reluctant to dip into those funds, particularly Numbers’. It made his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of using his partner’s money. There was still a part of him that clung to the hope that Numbers was in fact, alive and breathing. Wrench had never actually seen the body, had he?

It was, however, pointless to cling to any kind of hope at the moment. If it had just been Malvo who had told him of his partner’s death, he would not have believed him. The man was a manipulator, if he’d ever laid eyes on one, and would no doubt say anything to dig into his victims’ hides. However, the officer had also confirmed his death, and that was enough for him to feel the need to take Malvo out.

He hunches his shoulders against a sudden onslaught of bitter wind, before straightening out and continuing onward. If he wanted to do things right--that is, do things efficiently--he would have to return to Fargo. There was no doubt that, in fact, he would need the money to find Malvo. Not to mention, technically, the assignment that he and Numbers had set out to complete remained unfinished. Their goal, ultimately, had been killing Malvo to begin with. And to use the saying that was all too cliche but ultimately fitting, it was personal this time.

With that plan in mind, he sets out to find a rather abandoned and desolate car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is going to be a bit of a slowly progressing fic but here's chapter two!!

It’s a year later, and he’s just as far as he was when he’d been in front of the hospital in Minnesota. He had absolutely zero leads on Malvo’s whereabouts, and just about as much in where he might be. From the hospital, he’d gone back to Fargo, only to find the business in shambles. Malvo had gone in and completely extinguished the company’s existence ruthlessly and without a fault. He’d found himself out of work and a steady source of income.

It was undeniably lucky for him, however, that he had known other agencies that Fargo had dealt with in the past, and even more lucky that they would be more than willing to take him in. Numbers and himself, not to boast, were well known in the industry, completing their assignments quickly and without too much trouble. They left very little evidence of their existence behind (the only evidence being the deaths of those they were sent to kill).

He’d taken off from the start, imploring that the company allow him to complete his last mission: taking down Lorne Malvo. They’d glanced at each other, and then at his whiteboard with his scrawled request, and had agreed, but with some hesitation. They wanted one of their own men on the scene. He’d said that he was, technically, one of their own men, as of this very moment. They’d laughed, but had assigned someone to go with him regardless. His partner was a woman, fluent in ASL, and quiet. They conversed briefly, mostly on the possible whereabouts of the shithead that had killed his _only_ partner. Otherwise, they communicated very little. She seemed about disinterested in a relationship outside of the business as he was. That suited him perfectly.

They’d started out broad, looking into the murders and crimes that were unsolved, and had a dramatic flair attached, something that Malvo seemed to love to add to his trail of misery and destitution. So far, they’d had approximately no luck whatsoever. They’d stopped for the night in a small town in Colorado, taking up a motel room with two separate beds and a bathroom to the side.

He sets his bags down, observing the room briefly before turning to his companion, and signing that he was going out for a bit. She simply nods, and props herself up amidst the pillows of her own bed with her laptop. He doesn’t bother to say much of anything else, leaving and taking the car, driving down to an old cafe at the far end of town and taking a seat inside. He doesn’t order anything, and no one seems to mind. He only sits.

The place is just as he remembers. There’s the faint smell of coffee, as was expected of any coffee shop, but the underlying smell of cinnamon drifts through the air, just like three Christmases ago when he had last been here. The leather cushions of the metal chairs are a little roughed up, but still comfortable, even for a taller, heavier man like himself, and the tables have a few stains, but are otherwise immaculate. The lighting is dim, mostly because half of the lights seem to be ready to give out. He vaguely wonders how much longer they’ll last. They were much the same when he was here last.

The only difference about this cafe, he mourns, is that his partner is not sitting across from him, sipping his coffee, and skimming some paper for necessary information while Wrench watches him. He'd given him that look, that one time they were here, the one that meant, _“Stop watching me, asshole.”_ He hadn’t stopped though. Instead, his mouth had quirked up slightly in return, and he’d reached over and taken a sip of his partner’s coffee. The look Numbers had given him was probably one of his favorites. It was so hilariously infuriated, he’d gone and taken another sip. Numbers had promptly slammed the paper down on the table and snatched his coffee back from Wrench, burning his fingers in the process. He wouldn’t sign back for the next hour, speaking out loud and forcing Wrench to read his lips.

Definitely worth it.

A knot forms in his chest now as the memory cascades over him. There is a mixture of longing and emptiness that swirls in the knot, like a whirlpool growing ever larger. In the center, in the very depths of it all, is a burning, white hot anger. Directed towards Numbers? No, definitely not. Towards his killer? Yes. It pierces the very center of Wrench’s mind, and his hands grip the edges of the table briefly like they were his lifeline as the feeling overtakes him. It’s gone the next moment, a brief flash of what he’d kept buried in his heart.

He exhales slowly, relaxing his grip, and looks at the empty seat across from him. The inside of him is not as hollow as that chair’s occupancy, though he feels maybe it would be better if he felt that empty. There is a sense of longing, a yearning just to touch Numbers hand again, to breathe in the stupid cologne he insisted on wearing. It’s ridiculous, he thinks sometimes, that he’s this sentimental about the death of his partner, because damn it all! He’s a hitman, and why should he feel this way about anyone?

He stands abruptly, leaving some change on the table for a coffee he never ordered, and moves outside, breathing in the cold, night air. It’s below freezing, but not nearly as cold as Minnesota had been. Nothing was as cold as that state. Nothing could really compare.


End file.
